Member-only story
Poetry
They Both Adjust
And nothing happens
The check arrives without sound
set down at the edge of the table
where neither of them is looking.
It surprises him how light it is, still.
The paper curls slightly
still warm from someone else’s hand.
It smells faintly of coffee and soap.
A corner catches on the grain of the wood
and stays there.
For a second
nothing happens.
His hand lifts, then stops halfway
fingers already open, unsure what they’re reaching for.
She glances down, not at the number
but at the space around it
the way you look at something fragile
you don’t mean to break.
As if checking whether it belongs to either of them
or to the time they have already used up.
The table feels smaller now.
His coffee has gone cold enough
that he can smell it
sharp and thin, like it’s been waiting.
He thinks of saying something light
a joke, an offer, a reach
feels the shape of it in his mouth
how easily it would…
